Blueberrying
by SilverCascade
Summary: "Not for the first time, he wonders how he's supposed to kill something he can't see." Yasuke Matsuda makes breakfast for his mother. Pre-Canon. Angst. One-shot.


I'll pretend you can hear me.  
But it's no good, because I know you can't.

- Margaret Atwood, _The Handmaid's Tale_

* * *

He's surprised they let him in anymore. There's no point to it, because she doesn't know who he is - and he's not allowed to tell her, in case it "adds traumatic stress to her disorder." He's her son... he's supposed to bring stress to her life! It's what little boys do - that's what she'd said, running her hands through his hair. He held the blueberries, the spoiled ones staining his fingertips purple-red. She'd hold the plant pots steady, dark hair flowing past her shoulders, an empty, fluttering laugh on her lips.

"You're an terror, Yasuke," she said. "You'll be the death of me."

She'll never know how accurate her predictions were, now she can barely remember her own name. The hair is still dark, curling, and more alive than her mind. They say dementia's responsible, a man in a white coat and the Y of a stethoscope hanging from his neck. He says it so often that Yasuke's got a plan.

The notes in his journal are his weapons, printed in the steady capitals of a young man who takes care of order in his head. He's got a plan, and after school everyday, the library sings to him - no, libraries can't sing. Not that his mother could agree. But the reference section calls to him. He pores over names, but the man who plagues his mother cannot be found - not a single Dementia in the phone books.

Not for the first time, he wonders how he's supposed to kill something he can't see. He's got a slingshot, and he's David - his father's Bible tells him all, and Goliath can be defeated, if he ever shows his face.

It's a dazzling Sunday when he visits her; the home lets him roam as he wishes, but he stays away - what's the point of spending time with someone who doesn't know you? He brings himself to go with only one promise. His dearest friend visits him on Sundays, and only after he's seen his mother. If he doesn't go, she doesn't come. It's simple, and, as usual, it's her incredible idea that gets him where he needs to be.

He's dressed well. If she's got something to comment on, it's always his attire - if he's not immaculate, she'll tut and she'll moan. It's the only reaction he gets, yet he doesn't let himself obtain it. The way her smooth brow creases, brown eyes large and sad, he can't stand it. Then _she_ yells at him, when his mother's left behind:

"What were you thinking?! Making your own mother cry!"

"My other clothes weren't clean."

"She's already suffering! Do you want to make it worse?!"

"No. You're right. I'll get dressed up next time."

"Good." Hands on her hips, she strides away, before throwing one look over her shoulder. "Are you coming? We have another sandcastle to build!"

Yasuke smooths out the air bubbles in the plasters on his knees, and picks at the one on his cheek. He pats his t-shirt down for dust, before following her out. That was the week before last, the second time she'd yelled at him.

This week, he's prepared. The board is wooden and heavy when he carries it out, but the way the looming medics part for a seven-year-old boy is powerful, so he knows he's doing the right thing. Thick white slabs sit on a plate, bread smeared with blueberry jam, crushed shells littering the top. A large red-and-black mug of tea, milky but strong, and only a sprinkling of sugar. Just the way she likes it.

"Hello," he says, as the doctor holds the door open.

"Oh, hello little boy!" Her eyes spark, and she smiles. There are small grey lines in her chin and around her mouth.

"Yes, hello." He shuffles towards her, confident gait slowed.

"Who are you?" Her eyes dart from him to the window, then back to his sweating face. "Why are you here?"

"I'm... I'm Yasuke. My mother is in the hospital, so I'm visiting her."

Her eyes drop, her mouth curling downwards, and she looks at the cream sheets pooling at her knees. Antiseptic stings his nose, so he concentrates on the sensation as she speaks. "I'm so sorry to hear that. I hope she gets better soon, and that you can go home together."

"Y-Yeah." Why does his voice have to hitch?

"Say, is that girl with you? The one with the bright red hair? She's pretty."

She'd come along with Yasuke once. She was not the one who visited this wretch every week, yet this part of the conversation was routine. "Her name… Junko Enoshima, isn't it? Is she a friend of yours?"

He blinks hard and swallows. How can two words - one name - pound on his heart like this? How does the mind and the body make such an association with a face it has seen only once? He bites his lip, then flashes her a large smile. "Anyway, I have something for you."

She doesn't notice the false cheeriness, but looks at him and clasps her hands together. "Oh?"

Yasuke places the tray on her lap, leaning over her thin frame, clouds of lavender and vanilla overtaking him. The machines hum, and the occasional beep and the patter of feet are muffled by the walls.

"It's breakfast." _Your favorite. Please, please remember your favorite breakfast, Mother._

"That's kind! For a stranger too..." Her warm eyes pour into his head, and he clenches his fists. "I'm sure your mother is very proud of you."

He forces himself to sit down, even though he wants to run. The plastic chair feels hard under his thin brown suit. "Do you like blueberry jam?"

"Yes!" Her bites into the toast are quick and messy, but she seems to relish it. Yasuke releases his breath, and looks at the scratches on the tiled floor. "It's something I think I'd like to try again. There's a first time for everything, and this is mine."

"For you, certainly."

"Yes. Certainly." The tea splashes onto the sheets as it burns her lips, but she doesn't cry out as it soaks into her body. She's quiet; her skin hisses, and Yasuke has to pull the red cord.

He's an icicle by the time they arrive, angels in their white gowns, and they pull her from the bed and into the shower. She stares at him until she disappears.

Yasuke leaves. The home is empty, and he dissipates through bodies, animate or otherwise, until the silver gates let him out. Outside, he sees only shrubbery so green it hurts his eyes, and the occasional machine trundling on the road. He stands outside, close to the railings, and waits. The tea-soaked sheets sit in his head, until Junko's bubbling laugh and soft hands pull him from the image.

"Matsuda-kun!" she says, squeezing his hands tightly. "At least you've got me!"


End file.
